the thanksgiving rooster (🐔) is trying to ruin the thanksgiving dinner ! ( !) I tried looking in the pig pen. And I tried looking jn the oven, but I cant find the rooster (🐓) and i need to bake him for bakesgiving
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Nov 20, 2017 03:20
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| # ? May 6, 2024 11:22 |
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that thanksgiving rooster got me bad a bit ago. I was preparing a fried oreo pie, and he stuck his head in through the doggie door and said "Cock-a-doodle-do, fu-!". and I immediately shook the knife I was using to cut a Costco apple pie apart with (so I could scoop out the apple and put in fried Oreos) right at him and said "don't you dare!". and he did it, uttering that unholiest of profanities in the sanctity of my bakesgiving kitchen and then turning right ahead and hightailed it off. well, I was so flustered I slammed my knife down on the counter and somehow made my plate of fried Oreos flip over onto the floor. so I guess it'll be refilled Costco apple pie down at the ol' Kthulhu5000 family homestead this year, but god bless us anyway for having good health and each other. But I hope you catch that rooster and give him the dickens, OP. it may not be the most christ-like sentiment, but durn it truthful, wasn't respite from this rooster disturbance what our chillgrim forefathers left the old country for? ---------------- |
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Nov 20, 2017 07:23
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some think the thanksgiving rooster is just that; a rooster. I believe it's something more... a physical manifestation of the hatred that seethes through the holiday itself. until we can kill this rooster, every thanksgiving will still have that racist uncle; the relative you don't know that well who gets drunk and tries to start a fight; the button on your pants that prevents you from getting comfortable after you've stuffed yourself. the thanksgiving rooster must be stopped. until then we will have no peace, and the thankful nature of this holiday will once again be swept under the fridge. |
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Nov 20, 2017 08:26
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I stopped by a small shack in the wasteland before moving on. There was a man inside who greeted me disinterestedly. "Well met, sah" he grunted at me, head bent over a workbench as he hammered on something long and metal. "Got no food fer travelers, though." "Well met, yeh," I responded with a wave he didn't see. "S'wonderin', have you heard tell of... The Rooster round these parts?" The old man's arms seemed to miss a beat for a moment, and his hammer went wide. It swung into a small cup full of screws that went flying off and around his workbench like so many small insects fleeing into the darkness. The man stood unmoving for a long minute, then set the hammer down. "You seek... The Rooster?" "Aye, sah," I affirmed. "I aim to stew it, I do." The man tugged at his grey whiskers for a while, then turned to look at me. His face was creased many times over, worn with the worry of years, but his eyes were far from dull. They shone with a deep inner light, signifying that this man, old though he may be, was anything but a fool. His mind seemed hard at work, and his brows knit furiously as he knit my words together into one coherent thought, loathe though he may be to accept it. "For... the Thankles?" he asked, at last. "Aye, sah, the Thankles." There was a long pause, then without warning the man turned round and began pushing his workbench to one side with the hideous grating noise of metal on metal. In the spot where the workbench was, I saw a trapdoor leading down into the earth. A few errant screws were littered around it like flies. "Come then," the man beckoned, "to the soothe-sayer. Come then... to the Table of Thankles." "Will this soothe-sayer aid me in my quest for the Rooster?" I asked, hesitant. The man merely grinned, and climbed downward until he was out of sight.
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Nov 20, 2017 16:17
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UWBW posted:I stopped by a small shack in the wasteland before moving on. There was a man inside who greeted me disinterestedly. 
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Nov 20, 2017 16:26
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I followed the old-timer down the ladder and into the gaping maw of darkness below. The rusted rungs were rough rough on my hands, and bits of red iron flaked onto my hands. I wiped it off on my tunic as I stepped on to the landing. When I looked up, I saw only the faintest outlines of the space around me. I waited a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but they did not. My hand stretched forward, groping for the purchase of anything solid. I felt a sharp pain as it collided with something hard and flat a few feet from my initial position. "The table," croaked an old and dusty voice, "who approaches the table?" Before I found the courage to respond, there was a shhnkt and the low light of a single match illuminated the room. The sudden flare of light felt like a needle in my eye, but I steadied myself, knowing it was folly to look away. I could make out a withered old hand holding the match, which connected to the face of an old crone at the other side of a long table. Atop the table was what I first thought was a decadent feast, fit only for the most regal of kings - butter-nut squash, potatoes con mash, loose corn, and some sort of guinea fowl large enough to fill the gullet of one of the deep-sea rainfish. "I come to the table, old mother," I said, mustering up what courage I had. "Are you the soothe-sayer who can aid me in my quest?" There arose a terrible cackle from the far end of the table. The old crone's face became a harrowing mountain range of creases and corners as the light of the match danced and flickered. Her face seemed alive with the flame, the bright orange light gently caressing each terrible fold along her toothless grin. "Ye seek the Rooster, fool," she said, when her peals of laughter stopped echoing off the wall. "Ye know it be death, yet ye seek it regardless." "Aye, mah," I answered. "Can ye help a pilgrim, or have ye naught but scorn and laughter for such as I?" A terrible smell began to fill my nostrils, but I paid it no heed. The crone's Jack-Of-The-Lantern grin flickered and swayed through the light of the match for an unknowable time before she answered. "West," she said at last, "over the great ocean. West, over the raging sea ye will find the Rooster. A pilgrim ye may be, and as a pilgrim ye will likely perish, but perhaps ye will find what is sought. It is a rare thing, in this dying age, but..." There was a long pause. "... I sense a deep iron in you, boy. Ye may bag the Bird, ye just may. But!" She exclaimed the last as I made to pull myself away from this table. "It is rude to leave without accepting the hospitality of the house." She said this, her hand gesturing to the offerings on the table. I took a second look, and pulled away, repulsed. I saw to my horror that the feast laid before me must have been laid days, perhaps months ago. Maybe even years. There was as much corn in the corn bowl as there were wriggling larvae. The squash was green and blue with mold. The potatoes seemed to be giving off spores at regular intervals, and the guinea fowl pulsed with movement. "What is this?" I stammered out, half in anger and half in fear. There was no response, and I could no longer see the hag's face, but only the flickering match. The guinea fowl, cooked though it once had been, expanded like a lung, up and down, growing slightly larger each time, until I thought it would burst. To my shame, I could take it no longer, and I ran. Up the ladder I went, out the door, and into the wasteland once again like a dog chased from a kitchen. As her cackling laughter died behind me, a sound which I remember to this very day, I realized my journey had only just begun.
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Nov 20, 2017 17:57
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I come to snuff the rooster. |
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Nov 20, 2017 18:24
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I do not carve with my knife. He who carves with his knife has forgotten the face of his father. I carve with my eye. I do not truss with my hand. He who trusses with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I truss with my mind. I do not cook with my oven. He who cooks with his oven has forgotten the face of his father. I cook with my heart, and so help me if Aunt Ethel complains that it's dry again this year I'm going to let her have it with interest. |
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Nov 20, 2017 19:25
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google THIS posted:I do not carve with my knife. He who carves with his knife has forgotten the face of his father. I carve with my eye. Given my contribution to this thread this may be obvious, but I'm actually reading The Dark Tower series for the first time right now and this made my day, thank you.
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Nov 20, 2017 19:28
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yeah i was gonna say your prosr had a very dark tower feel |
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Nov 20, 2017 19:31
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gonna get baked on bakesgiving with my buddy the rooster. i will find him
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Nov 21, 2017 16:20
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Ain't found a way to find him yet Real good at hide and seek I bet Seems every path leads me to nowhere Bakesgiving's soon, the centerpiece Elusive rooster, the family feast I heard a gobblecluck from somewhere... Yeah, I've come to stuff the rooster I'm here to try and find the rooster, yeah He knows how to hide Yeah, he really knows how to hide Here to try to stuff the rooster Ah yeah, yeah Didn't really have a plan Just snatch it up with my bare hands Didn't know it was like hunting Road Runner Acme bird seed with a "Free Food" sign I hope I haven't lost my mind Oh God please won't you help me make it through Yeah just want to stuff the rooster, ah yeah Yeah here come the rooster, yeah You know he ain't gonna die No, no, you know he ain't gonna die https://i.imgur.com/QKTkerO.mp4 |
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Nov 21, 2017 16:38
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That lame rear end bunny hides eggs, but this fly rear end rooster hides candied yams. Get out and find him kinds, find those rooster yams. |
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Nov 21, 2017 17:10
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In a way, we all have our own thanksgiving rooster to hunt. And that way is literally. I've released one thanksgiving rooster for every poster in byob, and they will be making their way toward your residences now. Be warned: if you don't slay your thanksgiving rooster before thanksgiving day, you won't live to regret it. |
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Nov 22, 2017 07:07
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“Honey, I’m home!” The front door thuds. “I cannot WAIT to have that thanksgiving turkey tonight, hon. There is a great blood smell in here, that is from the turkey I’m sure” No reply. Surprising from my wife, a known fan of blood. I continue to talk about the blood smell for about four more minutes before I notice the calendar hanging on our fridge. Bakesgiving Today!” My head jerks to the left simultaneously with a loud, surprising noise and I see that the oven is ajar - ”honey I’m home?” I whisper at the oven. I slowly creak open the oven and I see a piece of paper, peculiarly folded and placed within the mouth of my decapitated wife’s head. ”Why?”, I wonder. I poke my head into the oven a little farther to get a better look. To my eye, the paper appears to include a message written in big letters that were cut out of a magazine: ”RoOsTerz RuLE” This is about when I notice that the blood smell was coming from my wife an earthquake erupts within the fists I hold above my head as I cry out, ”ROOOOOOSTERRRRRR!” |
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Nov 22, 2017 16:45
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sockingtonsworth posted:my wife, a known fan of blood. I'm dying over here. |
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Nov 22, 2017 17:07
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Splatmaster posted:Ain't found a way to find him yet Very good. |
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Nov 22, 2017 18:38
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alnilam posted:yeah i was gonna say your prosr had a very dark tower feel I was going to call it The Cock Tower but I think that's something different |
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Nov 23, 2017 04:09
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| # ? May 6, 2024 11:22 |
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google THIS posted:I was going to call it The Cock Tower but I think that's something different ugh when i showed you that screenplay you told me you wouldn't tell anyone!! |
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Nov 23, 2017 04:21
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